


Keep You By My Side

by Lang



Series: teen hooker incest 'verse [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Accidental Incest, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Parent/Child Incest, Prostitution, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-19 04:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11889612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lang/pseuds/Lang
Summary: FP knows he shouldn't fall in love with a teen hooker. FP has no idea why he shouldn't fall in love withthisteen hooker.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This remains dirty incest teen hooker porn, with zero merit, requiring a heavy suspension of disbelief. You probably should not read it if that is not your thing.

Wasn't much in FP's life that was good, but he couldn't say it was all bad, either. Not while he still had his boy. 

In the mornings, FP would reach for those skinny hips and pull him close. Start kissing the skin there until Jughead squirmed and pushed his head away, blinking in embarrassment at how FP had given him a hard-on.

FP didn't let it boost his ego. A kid Jughead's age would get hard at anything. And the relationship was a contractual one. If the boy stayed the night, FP always made sure he got a forty, fifty dollar bonus. They both knew Jughead had no home to go back to. But that didn't mean FP didn't want to reward him somehow.

He was a creep, getting his kicks with a teenager. He knew it, and he bet Jughead knew it too.

Knowing it didn't make FP want to stop. He liked having Jughead in his arms. Liked getting Jughead off, too. He'd spoon Jughead whenever he got him for the night, give the kid a lazy handjob. Play with him until he could slip three fingers in without hurting him, get at that nub that made Jughead vocal and wild. 

Even got down on his knees every once in a while, take the boy into his mouth.

The first time he'd done that, they'd still been in that drive-in booth. He'd watched Jughead's eyes widen with shock. FP had hardly ever done this to anyone, not since he was a high schooler himself, so he wasn't pretending to be good at it. But he didn't need to be. Jughead didn't last long, too young to hold out when anyone was bothering to make it good for him.

Afterwards, Jughead had paused awkwardly and looked at the money FP slid his way, like he wasn't sure he should take it. FP ran a finger over one of his cheekbones.

"Don't go soft on me now," he said. "Not like I'm asking you to get used to that, with what it does to my knees."

He was kidding. Mostly. The booth's concrete floor was no picnic. Would have gone easier in FP's room at the Whyte Wyrm. That at least had a threadbare carpet. 

Jughead ducked his head. 

"No one's ever done that before," he said. Said it in a clinical voice, like he was talking about the weather. Only his white knuckles, shoving the twenties into his schoolbag, betrayed what FP had just done.

"Shit," FP said. 

Should have been some young thing like Jughead. Some girl who wanted to give this to him, one as fine and pretty as he was. All of Jughead's sexual experiences should be like that. Healthy. Normal. But thanks to guys like FP--

"Sorry about your knees," Jughead muttered now.

"You haven't got some girl you like--"

Jughead snorted. 

"A teenage hustler who sleeps with Serpents, trying to pass himself off as a dateable commodity at Riverdale High? Even I think that's unconscionable."

"Hey, any girl would be lucky to have you," FP told him. Smart as Jughead was. Good-looking, too.

Jughead looked at him strangely. A look that picked you up and examined you, the kind of look Gladys used to level at FP. Not that he wanted to think about her, after she'd ditched town and taken his kids. He shoved her away. Focused on more important things.

"We're putting a damn rug down on that floor," he said. Not just for him. For Jughead, who'd been on his knees a fair bit, and no wonder they always looked bruised and knobbly. "You know, if you'd just come to my place--"

"No Serpent territory," Jughead said, abrupt and final. "My dad was a Serpent, before he abandoned us."

-

That, more than anything, needled at him. 

A Serpent had left Jughead in this position. Probably a Serpent FP had known. Back before prison he'd known everybody: Rumble, Duke, Fingers -- the whole old guard. FP had led them. Had earned a double-snake jacket prove it. Proof that he'd been the kind of man to put the Serpents first, even before his own kids. 

The universe sure had rewarded him for that. But he'd tried to come back for them, hadn't he?

The other guys hadn't. Maybe they'd been locked up like him, but more of them seemed to have just skipped town when the going got too bad. And it made him sick to his stomach now, thinking that one of his crew, his _boys_ , the guys he'd joked with and fought for and taken ten damn years for, had turned around and left Jughead high and dry. 

So maybe he put some distance between himself and the Serpents now. Turned down some jobs, kept his head low. Stuck to being the Whyte Wyrm's bouncer and occasional barkeep. Once he got a few thousand under his belt he took it to a guy he knew who fixed up trailers out in Sunnyside, started talking numbers.

In the end, it didn't cost so much to get one of those beat up cans he himself had grown up in. He figured Jughead had probably grown up the same way, so he wasn't expecting the kid to be excited or anything. But Jughead walked in interested, eyes wide, fine pale hands tapping the side of his schoolbag like this was some event. So FP ended up being glad he'd paid for the furnishings and spent some time cleaning the place up.

"So what are you gonna do with this newfound palace?" Jughead asked. 

The words were sarcastic but his little grin wasn't. In seconds he'd conquered one of the couches, all his long skinny limbs splayed out on the cushions.

"No big plans," FP said easily. "Man oughtta have his own place, that's all."

He went to get himself a beer. Hesitated once he opened the fridge, unsure of what to offer the kid. Jughead lived in the popcorn and corn dog world of the Twilight. FP would bring him takeout from Pop's sometimes, but he'd figured it might be overkill to invite the kid over _and_ provide a full spread. He didn't want to be the kind of man that set up a relationship like that, buttering the boy up only to demand too much.

So he brought two beers over. Jughead carefully set his aside like he mistrusted it.

"Thanks, but I don't--"

"Shit. I'll get juice. You want juice? I'll get us juice."

He started to get up again and collided with one of Jughead's lanky limbs. His brain was still playing, _juice. Gotta get juice_ , because kids drank juice, actual kids. No point pretending Jughead was something besides that.

"I've seen too much alcoholism to want to partake in it, but I won't deny you your beer," Jughead said, snorting. "Let's just--"

He made an aborted movement, but the message was clear. Clothes off. Usually he just launched into it, but maybe the extra space in here was doing a number on him. Out of the drive-in booth, it felt like there were more possibilities, somehow. Even if they all started the same way.

"Let's get you bare," FP told him.

Jughead complied easily. Too easily. It twisted FP up, how soon Jughead had given up all that nervous bravado he'd had at the start. If he were a better man he wouldn't want Jughead to be this comfortable with him. He'd push the kid to go find something better.

But this was all the _something better_ that FP got. He didn't have his family, didn't have his boy or his baby girl, but he could forget about them when he was with Jughead. Watch the kid strip off his jeans, his jacket and t-shirt. God, but he was fine. When he was naked FP leaned forward and pulled him close. Rubbed the place where Jughead's muscles dipped down in a v, where two beauty marks winked at him. 

"Can you--" Jughead began. He looked away, like he was embarrassed. "Sometimes, before I start, you kiss me--"

FP leaned in and did that. Jughead's hands gripped his shoulders. Jughead liked being kissed, or at least he did when FP was doing it, which was incentive enough for FP to do it all the time. Sometimes he made the boy wait, made a game out of it, the kisses a reward for work well done. But, shit, not today. Today he was tired. And he liked kissing Jughead. No point in tormenting either of them. 

He kissed the boy until Jughead was making little sounds into his mouth. Wasn't just the kisses that were doing that -- Jughead's bare dick was rubbing hard against his jeans, making his own dick stir. FP figured it was time to move on. He leaned back and looked down at his handiwork, at that red, swollen mouth. Traced it with his thumb just to hear Jughead whine a little.

"Roll over," FP said. 

Jughead's chest shuddered once, but he did it, getting on all fours with his skinny knees sinking into the cushions. FP palmed his ass. A little greedily, sure, but then he was paying for the privilege. Jughead was almost too pretty from any angle, and this one was no exception. Slender, pale, and when FP spread him he saw that nice little pucker. Jughead took in a breath, like he could read FP's mind. 

Usually he could. Not today. FP's mouth descended. Jughead started in shock. 

If nobody had ever sucked him off before, then FP could bet that nobody had ever done this, either. He licked and lapped at that sensitive hole, getting the nerves there all keyed up. Jughead was always vocal, but now he was vocal and squirming, pushing his ass back against FP's tongue. FP steadied him with a hand on one thigh.

"Easy," he told him, breaking off. 

He was dirty, sure, and he was robbing Jughead of another first. But by now Jughead had to know FP could make it good for him. 

He resumed his task. FP had had this done to him more often than he'd done it himself, so he knew how good it could get. Knew how everything back there sent jolts straight to your nerves, to your dick, how it could reduce a man to whimpering and begging for it.

When he got Jughead moaning outright, he started alternating his mouth and fingers. Just with one hand. The other he snaked forward and offered to Jughead. Jughead latched on with a hand of his own, clutching FP's hand so tightly he almost cut off the circulation.

"When I get inside you," he promised Jughead, "it'll pay off."

"It's not paying off right now?" Jughead managed. His dick was at full-mast, leaking furiously. FP considered jerking him off, but he was rock-hard himself and he didn't want to waste that on a Jughead who was sated and soft. For a man who'd punched quite a few Serpents for bragging about Jughead coming on their dicks, he sure had a guilty, ugly need to make that happen for himself. 

A good fuck. That was all this was. That was all he had the right to ask for.

But afterwards, after he'd gotten Jughead to come twice and slid the kid the requisite pay, he found himself asking, "You wanna stay the night? Tip you for the trouble."

It came out casual, but it wasn't. Jughead slept like the dead and in the night FP counted the kid's ribs, started worrying about how much the boy was eating and how nobody but him seemed to care. The thought just slipped out, unnaturally. He was a john. Wasn't his place to try and be more.

But, hell. Maybe it wasn't even worry for Jughead. Maybe it was worry for his own boy, coming out ten years too late, all twisted-up and wrong.

-

Even as a bouncer and barkeep, he heard things. The Serpents were no longer the small-time gang FP had left behind. They were in it deep now: meth, heroin, cocaine. 

Real estate. 

Once, he would have taken that kind of job without blinking. Matter of fact, he almost signed on to supervise when Rex told him about it. A rich guy who wanted to buy up some land for less than it was worth. Who would sneak the Serpents a few thousand just for showing up, polluting it with their presence. 

Only it was the Twilight he wanted. The fucking Twilight, where the lights of the screen blurred the dark shadows under Jughead's eyes and made his lashes look ten times as long. Where after sex the kid sat naked on his cot and talked on about Tarkovsky. Smart as anything, that was Jughead. 

Wasn't right not to tell the boy what was coming. That didn't mean FP relished the task. He had Jughead booked on a regular basis these days, a standing appointment, and for the first time he found himself dreading it. Went to Pop's beforehand to buy time. Ended up getting what he always got: two double cheeseburgers, two orders of fries, two chocolate shakes. First time he'd brought Jughead a snack, he'd just ordered what he liked himself. Then he'd asked the kid what he liked best and Jughead had parroted the same back to him. Hard to tell if they really did have similar tastes or if Jughead just wasn't all that picky.

"Good to see you buying for two," Pop murmured at him now.

FP liked Pop. Always had. Pop never cared if you were North Side or South Side, young genius or Bulldog bruiser. If you needed to step in out of the cold for a bit, that was good enough for Pop. In a town like Riverdale, impartial kindness like that was pretty rare. 

But now he just squinted at the old man.

"Used to come in here when you were younger," Pop offered. "Wild, you were. Remember? I'd always wondered when you'd settle down and look after what's yours."

Another customer rapped on the counter and Pop shuffled away. FP stared after him, befuddled.

Look after what was his?

Nothing was his, that was the trouble. Gladys had vanished, and nobody could tell him where she'd gone. Forsythe and the baby were gone with her. So what did FP have to look after? Jughead, a kid his crew was planning on evicting. 

This thing with Jughead suddenly felt too fragile, like a house made out of popsicle sticks. FP picked up the bag of takeout and left the diner, wondering what it would be like to end it tonight, once Jughead understood what he was. That was a hypothetical. He didn't want to end it. He'd be lucky, though, if Jughead called it quits once he found out about the Twilight. 

If Jughead took off tonight, then he wouldn't have to wait for the boy to find something better, something more than what FP could offer him.


	2. Chapter 2

Jughead came to the trailer in a good mood. 

"Bet--my friend. She asked me to join the Blue and Gold. That's--"

FP remembered what it was. He let Jughead explain anyway. He was three sheets to the wind already and didn't have it in him to resist the easy, familiar way Jughead expressed contentment. All in the eyebrows. In the way his voice got excited instead of sarcastic, all his shields down.

And it wasn't like the kid had anyone else he could spill his day to. Just FP, clumsily helping him pull off his jacket, his flannel. Blinking down at him when Jughead sank to his knees without preamble, when Jughead's long white fingers undid his fly.

They had a routine now. He shouldn't let Jughead jump into it, though. Not tonight. His hands found Jughead's wrists.

"You need to eat," he said. "I got you some food."

Jughead cocked his head and looked up at FP through those long, pretty lashes.

"I'm glad you remember that I'm ruled by my stomach," he said. "But Ar--my other friend. He treated me to a spread that would satisfy a Bulldog."

He snorted.

"Literally. It was from some special lunch for the football team. The perks of being a roid-fueled teen dream, I guess. Anyway--"

The tip of his tongue darted out and licked along the rim of his lips. FP's dick gave an eager twitch. Jughead was in fine form tonight, head all tilted like that, showing off that wide mouth and the angle of his cheekbones.

"I need cash," he told FP seriously. "And you always give it." His fingers worked their way to FP's cock.

What was FP supposed to say -- that he didn't want to fuck him and then spring the Twilight news on him? That he'd rather the boy get angry on a full stomach?

Jughead leaned forward and ran his tongue along FP's shaft, trying to be smooth. 

FP wasn't a saint. He gave up trying to make this sort of decent, because it wasn't, and let the boy get to work. Jughead sucked the head wet and messy, the way he knew FP liked, and didn't complain about how much harder it was to get FP to come when he was drunk like this. Didn't whine in protest, either, when FP brushed that dark curl out of his eyes and rubbed the beanie on his head. FP wanted to touch him tonight after all. Hard not to want that with how easily Jughead yielded to it, like these soft little pets weren't something anyone had ever offered him before. 

He came in Jughead's mouth, after telling Jughead what a good kid he was. Hadn't meant to say it. It just slipped out. Jughead pulled off and leaned back, looking up at him like he wasn't sure what to say back.

"Okay, you're a terrifyingly nice drunk," he said, like niceness was somehow inappropriate. 

He said it only after he'd swallowed all the come the way FP preferred, even the little dribbles FP had left on his lips. Because FP wasn't nice. This kid was sixteen and homeless. FP was the furthest thing from nice. 

Didn't keep him from forcing the cheeseburger on Jughead anyway, while they waited for FP's refractory period to run. Jughead knew by now that FP liked to hold him, so he stripped without complaint and clambered into FP's lap to eat. FP found himself showing off the boxset he'd picked up at a pawn shop -- Postwar Kurosawa -- just because he figured Jughead would like it. 

"'Bleak, brutal, and breathtaking,'" Jughead said, reading off the back cover. "Let it never be said I turned _that_ down." Then he was standing up and putting it in the DVD player before returning to FP. This was the time to tell him, FP knew. The kid was relaxed. Trusting. 

FP opened another beer and drank it down while the TV spat subtitles at them. 

When Jughead's food had been reduced to grease, FP said, "Prep yourself."

He took his time fucking Jughead that night. Pulled him right into bed when he was done, too, and wrapped his arms around him. This should be terrifying, how quickly he'd gone from respecting that he was a client, nothing more, to pressing nights on Jughead, asking Jughead for companionship.

Instead, the only thing that scared him was the thought of being without the boy.

-

In the morning, Jughead forgot his flannel and FP didn't say anything. Didn't complain about Jughead leaving it behind. He saw what could happen: Jughead colonizing the trailer. Leaving clothing, takeout trash, crumpled homework that he'd forgotten to finish.

If FP were better, he'd stop that right now, before it started. Instead he cleared a space in the closet and hung the flannel up inside it. 

He'd wrapped Jughead's fingers around his dick as soon as the boy had woken up, made the kid jerk him off. But he'd asked him, too, about the Blue and Gold. 

Jughead hadn't blinked. He was so starved for somebody to take an interest in him that he took fast to this combination of kindness and perversity. 

"Bet-- my friend. She's a good editor. If she's okay with some of my articles I may ask her to look at my novel."

FP bit back a groan at how expertly Jughead was working his dick. 

"Get out, kid. A novel?" he managed instead.

FP didn't know the first thing about novels. Never had been much of a reader. But it was better than asking about Bet-my-friend, this North Side girl who made Jughead's voice hitch. And the way he saw it, Jughead deserved to have someone ask about the things Jughead liked. Nobody else seemed to be doing it.

"I don't talk about it much," Jughead said quickly. "With johns, I mean."

Or ever with johns, if FP knew him. Jughead had a reputation for being secretive, removed. Stuck-up, according to some of the younger Serpents. FP had knocked them around a bit for that. 

"Hey, with me you can talk about it whenever you want," he told Jughead, and watched a satisfied blush creep across the kid's fine cheekbones.

-

Jughead's things did conquer the trailer. 

Flannels turned into jackets. Jeans. Beat-up shoes, the only spare pair the kid probably owned. FP put it all in the closet, and made sure he left the closet door open so Jughead would know that space was his. Cleared a spot in the fridge, too, for Jughead to put his food. Jughead was always starving. Didn't seem right to deny the boy a chance to snack while he waited for FP to get it up again.

Because a man always paid his debts, FP made sure Jughead got his money, too. It was Jughead who offered, haltingly, that they settle on a weekly rate.

"You can't--" he said, looking uncomfortable, "--you have to be spending a lot on me--"

He was FP's biggest expense. Shit, he was the reason FP probably hadn't slid into full-on boozehound. If it came down to liquor and Jughead, he'd forego the drink.

But he wasn't made of money. He took the deal. Two hundred fifty a week, flat rate, and he could fuck Jughead pretty much anytime. He'd lean the kid over the arm of the couch at night, kissing the beauty marks on his back as he pumped into Jughead, fast and greedy. Agree to get that pretty face covered in come while the boy knelt on the bathroom tiles in the morning, then would suck Jughead off while he was showering before school. Jughead responded well to anything equal parts dirty and sweet. 

Anyway, it wasn't just sex. FP liked hearing about Jughead's day, about his novel, his snotty dramatic soliloquies on Tarantino. It filled up all that lonesome space in the trailer. It gave FP something to look forward to after long days backhanding meth-heads and making sure he didn't drink so much of the whiskey that Rex took it out of his paycheck.

He picked up odd little details about Jughead, slipping out by accident among all the boy's careful omissions. His first scar had been from a fight in juvie. The girl he just about worshipped was named Betty, and she probably had no idea. His best friend was some kid who'd ditched him three months ago. Jughead was more loyal than he was and refused to ditch him back.

Jughead had a nervy little morality to him. FP liked that. That and the business with Jughead's father had probably kept the kid out of the Serpents, and even if FP refused to be ashamed about being a part of the gang himself, he was pretty glad Jughead had stayed out of it. 

When FP asked about that, Jughead just snorted.

"Because they offer so much," he said. "No thanks. I already have a rap sheet. Pretty sure they took my old man and left him with nothing but a crappy jacket and a mountain of debt. Or at least that's what he left us. My mom skipped town to avoid the debt. I still have the jacket somewhere. I'd sell it, but no one wants to buy a fashion accessory that would get you criminally profiled."

He had a point. If FP'd still had his leathers, he would have worn them, but now that they were gone he didn't see any point in pursuing new ones. It had been a long time since he'd bothered to think of his future, but now he woke up nights with his arm curled around Jughead and thought four or five years ahead.

There were no Serpents there. Just an overwhelming need to have Jughead. Keep him. Jughead had two more years of high school after this, and dodged questions about college. Well, maybe he didn't want to go. That would be sad, with the brains he had, but FP didn't waste tears on it. Jughead wanted to write -- fine. He could stay here and write. As long as he stayed. As long as he wanted to. 

Maybe he didn't. Maybe he'd leave, find a nice girl like he deserved. That was only right, and yet on nights when Jughead was working the projection booth and FP was drinking alone at home or at the Whyte Wyrm, right didn't look so right. Instead it looked bitter and painful. FP knew the best thing would be to let the boy go eventually, but he didn't want to do that.

On one of these maudlin nights, just when he wasn't expecting Jughead to show, the boy banged his way into the trailer. Loud and frantic, uncoordinated in that way that only a panicked teenager could be. FP looked up from his drink and blinked at him.

"They're selling it!" he told FP. "The drive-in! The last genuine icon of old Riverdale, the heart of this town and of -- of our collective ability to believe that this place could offer us something to dream about. Mayor McCoy is planning to sell it!"

FP wasn't sure how to respond.

"Land's more valuable as something else--"

"No, it isn't," Jughead said, shutting that right down. He brought a hand up to his face and exhaled, working his jaw. "What's more valuable than the chance to experience a few hours of cinematic escape, right when we need it?"

He somehow found his way to the couch and collapsed on it, like a puppet with strings cut. Now he was rubbing at his eyes. The sight woke some terrible alarm in FP, some answering misery. FP pushed off his chair and went to be with him.

"The Register's saying it's because of the characters that hang around there," Jughead said, voice choked and despairing. "You know, like the teenage hookers--"

"No," FP said firmly. "It's not you. It's not your fault, you hear me? It's the Serpents. They're in on it. Some guy paying them to drive down the value of the land."

Jughead stared at him. 

"What?" he said. "Why didn't you tell me? Are you in on it?"

"No," FP argued, voice rising to match Jughead's. "Shit, no, kid. Come on. I wouldn't do you like that!"

"No, you'll just fuck me while your friends get paid to trash my home," Jughead said. He pushed off of FP, off of the couch. Stared at FP like this was the first time he was really seeing him. FP felt about two inches tall.

"There's nothing you would have been able to do about it," he tried. "A kid like you, going up against the Serpents--"

"The Twilight is the one thing I have," Jughead said, voice shaky. "It's where I used to go with my sister when I was a kid. It's where I _live_ \--"

He broke off. Looked at FP like he was just some piece of garbage.

"No, you know what?" he said. "I thought you were-- I don't know. I don't know what I thought. But I'm not going to waste my breath anymore."

Then he was gone. 

-

The next two weeks were, hands down, maybe the worst ones FP had ever had. Counting the ten years in prison. Counting the week he'd spent knocking on doors, begging people to tell him where his wife and children had gone.

See, in prison there had been hooch, at least. And when he'd been looking for Gladys, he'd had a full flask to help him through it. But now -- now, that first night, he got so drunk that some young Serpent knocked _him_ out, and then Rex was threatening to cut him loose for being useless, and so after that he had to tackle the loneliness sober.

Sober and infatuated. That was what this thing with Jughead had turned into. A creep's infatuation. FP kept well away from the boy out of respect, and because a man had to have some pride, but that didn't mean his ears didn't perk up when he heard about Jughead arguing with the Serpents. Turning down johns out of some stubborn pride of his own, getting into fights to try and keep the gang away. Even meeting with the damn mayor, some people said.

Around the Whyte Wyrm, they said that with a snigger. That was another reason to stay sober. He was starting fights now, whenever people talked about Jughead that way. No reason to, except that he figured this was the only apology he could offer the kid. 

FP was oddly proud of him. He wasn't letting the Twilight go down without a fight. 

It did go down, though. The day the sale was posted in the Register, he took himself down there. Not meaning to talk to Jughead or anything. Just worried for him. His worry turned out to be well-founded, too, because a fair few gang members were there waiting for the kid, looking to have some fun. When they saw FP starting across the lot, though, they hung back. 

"You don't have business here, I'd suggest you move on," FP said warningly. 

Most of them did. A few stayed, but they had that muttering, anxious look that said none of them were hot enough to really try anything.

Jughead was surveying the side of the projection booth. He had a huge backpack on his skinny shoulders, a bottle of spray paint in his hands. Planning to tag the place. Maybe that was the only goodbye a kid like him was ever allowed.

"Where are you gonna live now?" FP tried.

Jughead looked at him. There was a bruise on his mouth, and it made FP want to grab one of those younger Serpents -- didn't matter which one -- and beat the little shit down just to make a point to the rest.

He didn't do that.

"That's not a taunt," he said instead, clarifying the question. "That's an offer."

-

Jughead's backpack got its own space next to the closet. FP offered him the bed on a permanent basis, just for him, but Jughead looked at him with wide eyes and said, "You can't pay me to live with you and then take the couch."

FP left it alone. He rooted through the mess in his kitchen drawers until he found a spare mailbox key for Jughead. Jughead turned it down.

"I get my mail at the post office in town," he said. "That way I can still go to my school."

His tone was still frosty. Still hurt. FP let that be. The kid had come home with him. He figured he couldn't ask for more.


	3. Chapter 3

He told himself it was simple utility, Jughead agreeing to move in. He wouldn't pretend there was more to it on Jughead's end. 

FP, though, he'd gone from john to full-on sugar daddy, and if he looked real hard at himself he could tell that that was what he'd wanted all along. It was just a different flavor of scumbag, but he took to it. FP had always taken to just what he shouldn't. 

This time, at least it didn't make him a gangbanger. Made him -- made him something like a provider. Not a good one, sure. Half the time he forgot Jughead needed to eat more than burgers and milkshakes. But the kid never complained, not once, and FP found more tentative little marks of his presence around the place. Cartons of milk and easy-cook soups the boy had bought. Cereal. Paper towels whenever they ran out. Turned out Jughead had a better eye for noticing the essentials. 

They didn't fuck every night. FP would have felt bad. Jughead had school five days a week, and school meant all kinds of midterms and finals and pep rallies and whatever, the kinds of things a boy his age should be preoccupied with. FP took to asking whether Jughead had some class he had to be up early for. Whether Jughead had a spelling test or something he should be studying for instead of casually offering FP a blowjob over dinner. 

"A spelling test?" Jughead said. "Am I nine years old?"

He damn well wasn't, thank god, but try telling that to the guilty feeling FP carried around half the time.

"I'm serious, Jughead," he told him. "We don't have to do anything if you've got something at school."

"Okay, dad," Jughead said, rolling his eyes. "Lucky for you, I pass most of my tests and I'm not a joiner. The only extracurricular I have is the Blue and Gold."

He kept talking about it. The Blue and Gold was Betty territory, which meant Jughead could talk about it pretty much all the time. Usually FP just barely put up with it, any reminder of Betty a reminder of the life Jughead could leave him for. Now, though, he didn't have any space to feel bitter. The guilty feeling was taking up all the space.

He was hard. He was hard over a word. 

What the hell would his actual kids think, if they knew? For the first time, he was glad they didn't. They would never find out. Forsythe and the baby were off somewhere, being normal kids, and their old man was here in a South Side trailer, tenting in his pants because a sixteen year old with pretty eyes had called him _dad_.

Jughead was a clever kid, too. He picked up on it. Looked nervous for a second, then embarrassed, then delighted. Got an expression on his face like he wished he could share this with a friend. 

"Wait. You like it when I call you--"

FP growled at him. In response, Jughead pushed off the cheap little kitchen table. Started stripping off his jeans, his t-shirt. FP spared a second to miss the prickly, underfed kid he'd met months ago, whose laundry list of rules would have kept him from launching into nakedness like this. Missed that kid for about two seconds. Then he was mesmerized by Jughead's long neck, his pronounced collarbones.

Jughead opened his mouth, probably to say _dad_. 

"Don't," FP warned. 

He hauled the kid off to the bedroom. Gently, though, so as not to hurt him. Jughead was still bright-eyed, like this was hilarious, like it wasn't a damn good thing for both of them that FP wasn't his daddy.

"What happened to no sex on a school night?" Jughead said, when he was lying on his elbows, staring up at FP. 

"Last I heard, you don't have a spelling test tomorrow," FP retorted. 

Jughead laughed. Really laughed. Something in FP went warm and fond over it. Shit. He was too old for Jughead, putting a roof over the boy's head only in exchange for a fuck. But he couldn't be total garbage. Not if he could make Jughead laugh like that. 

Tonight, though, he didn't kiss him right away. Some ghost of his kids was still lingering, some shame over what it took to get FP Jones good and hard -- _just call him daddy_ , he could hear Gladys saying testily. _He'll come in his pants._ Jughead's eyes looked green as hers had been, green as his boy's maybe still were. FP coaxed him into turning over, careful hands on the kid's side. 

Then he took Jughead from behind, slow. Licked up his skinny spine as he thrust into him. Jughead moaned at the contact, both too much and not enough for him. FP knew what he wanted. But he made sure Jughead was a panting, whimpering mess, begging him to come already, before he finally pressed the first kiss to the boy's shoulderblade. 

Jughead came with a yell. Like that was all he needed to put him over the edge. Just that little sign of affection. 

_That_ was what filled FP with guilt. This boy needed more than whatever the hell FP offered. Needed a real dad, a family. 

He was glad Jughead wasn't facing him when he finally came. Didn't want the kid to see the way he brought a hand up to his face, overwhelmed by want and shame.

-

Most days the want won out. Whenever the boy woke up hard and embarrassed and sobbed into FP's shoulder as FP jerked him off. When he helped himself to FP's lap like it was something natural, like he liked it when FP held him. When he didn't put his beanie on right away in the mornings, let FP spend a few minutes running a rough hand through that ink-black hair.

When he offered FP a draft of his novel like it was nothing, no big deal. FP could tell it was. Jughead cared what he thought about it. Touched, he took it to work and hid it under a ledge beneath the bar. Pulled it out when the room was dead, working his way through every dramatic passage. Jughead had talent. Could use more practice, and maybe a lesson in how less was more. Could definitely use someone smarter than FP to guide him. But the raw talent was there. FP told him so at the end of the day and got to watch him light up.

"You write a lot about this town," FP noted.

"Who else is going to chronicle Riverdale?" Jughead threw back. "If not me?"

"Wasn't aware a place like Riverdale needed to be chronicled," FP told him.

This town hadn't been good to either of them. But Jughead loved Riverdale, in his own way. Maybe Jughead was like FP, maybe he'd always end up liking what wasn't good for him.

That night, he knelt on the dingy kitchen linoleum and tentatively put his tongue to FP's ass. FP hadn't asked him to. But he was getting real bold. He knew that this point FP would never say no to him dropping to his knees. Fiddling with FP's belt buckle. He had FP bare-assed before FP even realized the kid was aiming for the wrong side. 

Hesitant about it. A little embarrassed, when FP peered over one shoulder and caught his face. But he took to it the way he did to everything else FP had shown him so far, his willingness and that pretty pink tongue of his quickly making up for any lack of practice. FP steadied his hands on the counter and let himself enjoy the way the kid fired up all his nerves. Made sure to tell him, too, to be free with the praise and the thanks. Jughead responded well to praise, to being told he was a good kid, a smart kid. That made it less shitty when FP reached an arm behind and grabbed the boy's head, made him dig his face in.

"There, baby," he said, panting. "Right there." He wasn't one to let just anybody play with his ass, but shit. This was _Jughead_. Sweetest thing he had, and if he was willing to do this then FP wasn't going to stop him. Every rough lap was going straight to FP's dick. He could usually hold out for longer, but something about how dirty this was pushed him over the edge fast. He came with a shout, and only then did Jughead pull back and get up, face red.

FP leaned in to try and kiss him.

"Oh, _gross_ ," Jughead complained, pushing him off. "That's weird even for me. At least let me brush my teeth first--"

He stomped away to the bathroom. 

"A kiss wouldn't make something that dirty any worse," FP called after him. 

He was still panting a little. He hadn't come that hard in a while, even though he'd come a fair bit since Jughead had moved in. 

It didn't escape FP that they'd built another routine: a little play in the mornings, Jughead's mouth and sometimes his ass at night. Got a little wilder on the weekends, when Jughead had more time, but not too much wilder. FP had settled into something effortless with Jughead, something that fit too well for either of them to trust completely. 

FP wasn't used to anything this natural-feeling. Common sense told him that it wasn't right, not at all, but when Jughead came back, teeth brushed and face scrubbed, something in FP went all tender at the sight of him.

"Gonna play with your ass tonight," he warned him. 

"Sure," Jughead said. His easy shrug didn't quite conceal the blush settling across his cheekbones. "Turnabout is fair play."

He buried his face in his arms that night. His ass was in FP's lap, sensitive dick leaking on FP's jeans. FP took a swig of his beer, then set it on the nightstand. Picked up the bottle of lube next to it and smeared a good bit right on the boy's hole. Jughead took in a sharp breath, the sudden cold a shock. 

FP massaged his pucker until he was whimpering and wriggling, fucking into nothing. 

"You want my fingers in you?" he asked the kid, between another swig of his beer.

Jughead whined. His hole was red and wet, eager for something. FP slid the pad of his thumb over it once, twice. Jughead's skinny hips shook.

"Gotta say it," FP told him.

" _Yes_ ," Jughead said.

Only then did FP reward him with one lubed-up finger, slipping in easy now that the boy was a little loose. Jughead moaned and fucked back against it. His insides were hot, clasped around FP's index. FP spent some time rubbing and stretching, enjoying the way Jughead gasped and moved in response. 

First time FP had seen the kid, sex had looked to be painful for him. Ugly. Had felt ugly, watching Jughead endure it. FP didn't want that for Jughead anymore. While Jughead was with him, he made sure the boy had a good time.

Not _too_ good, though. It was a Friday night and FP wasn't working early the next day. So they had plenty of time to stretch this out. FP got the boy to take two, three, four rough fingers. When Jughead was begging for the whole fist, he cut back to two again. Both of those glancing by the kid's prostate, tormenting him. While Jughead cried and shook in his lap -- _FP, come on. FP,_ please -- FP polished off his beer, warm and flat on his tongue. Enjoyed the way Jughead's ass clenched around his fingers. 

Then he made Jughead shift off of his lap and got himself a condom. The boy was shaking, licking his lips while he watched FP roll it on. 

"I'm clean," he begged. Little tears in his eyes. Fuck, he looked good like that. "I'm clean, FP, so come on. Just--"

FP pushed him back against the headboard and lined himself up. The first push had Jughead throwing his head back, crying out in satisfaction. FP didn't bother making this fuck slow and sweet because the kid didn't need slow and sweet. He needed release. Jughead came around the fourth or fifth stroke, grabbing a pillow and sobbing into it.

"None of that," FP reminded him, once the boy was totally spent. "Come on. Like to look at you."

Jughead put the pillow down. He looked beautiful and a little wrecked. 

"Kiss me," he said. It was the plaintive command of a child. Jughead never felt younger than in these moments, wrong as it was to admit that. FP kissed him. 

"Did good tonight," he told Jughead, caressing his jaw. Leaned back in for another kiss. Jughead smirked into his mouth, boastful and teenaged now. 

"Thanks, dad," Jughead whispered. 

Like a little secret weapon. FP came so hard he saw stars.

-

He was smiling more these days. Rex said it freaked him out. The younger Serpents seemed to take it as a warning, an eerie sign that FP would be tougher than usual with them if they tried anything at the Whyte Wyrm.

He didn't feel like being tough with anybody. Didn't even feel like being all that tough on himself, which had to be some kind of miracle, because he was pretty sure he was still the same lowlife he'd always been. Only now it seemed to be coming up fine for him in ways it hadn't before.

"Keep turning it around, FP," Pop told him, catching sight of FP grinning to himself one night. "The usual?"

"Damn right, Pop," FP said.

Dinner for two. With extra fries, to put some meat on his boy's ribs. FP settled in at the counter to wait for it.

The Pop's bell dinged. FP heard the clatter of the door, the eager sound of an unfamiliar teenager. A very familiar voice answering back: "Alright, son, if Pop's is what you want."

Once, that voice would have gotten his hackles right up. Something in it would always sound like failure to FP, like betrayal. Hard to tell who had betrayed who, though. Fred had always seen himself as the Gallant to FP's Goofus. But FP, well. Maybe FP hadn't exactly been the best friend to Fred, either.

He turned in his seat to look at Fred. Shit, Fred looked old. And FP couldn't even feel good about it. He probably looked twice as old. 

"Hey, Danny Partridge," FP said easily. He held out his arms. Trying to look friendly. Like he'd moved past all the -- all the shit in their past. He didn't want to fight with Fred. It would only ruin a decent day. "Look who's back from the damn dead."

Fred stopped in his tracks.

"FP?"

The red-haired teenager next to him shifted, looking from Fred to FP and back again.

"Son," Fred said, his voice very even. "This is FP Jones."

"Jones?" the kid said.

FP nodded at him. Now that he'd been introduced, he found that he didn't know what to say. It had been ten years since he'd seen Fred. And Fred didn't look too hot about letting FP mix with his kid or anything.

Not that that wasn't sensible. But still. Fuck him. FP shook his head at him.

"Well, don't let me ruin your night or anything," he said. Started to turn back around.

Fred's kid said, "Hey--" 

"Archie, go get a booth," said Fred. Still even. FP was trying to figure out where he'd heard the name before when Fred was in his face. 

_Fred_. The Captain America of Riverdale High. Doggedly nice and boring as they came. He wasn't supposed to have that hard edge in his voice when he next spoke, but he did have it.

"Have you been back a while?" he said.

FP cracked a warning grin.

"What are you -- questioning me?" 

"You took off, FP," Fred said. Short about it. 

"I got locked up. I seem to remember you wouldn't even show up at the damn station, let alone the sentencing--"

"Your son didn't hear from you," Fred said. Not accusingly. Just in that plain way of his that always had a hint of high-and-mighty. "Not once in ten years."

That was a lie. That was a _lie_ \-- FP had tried to write and had gotten _nothing_ back, and, anyway, how was it Fred's business?

"You got some interest in this I don't know about?" FP spat at him, not caring that his voice was loud and ugly and Fred's goliath of a son was tumbling out of his booth and coming their way.

"Your son is living god knows where," Fred said. "Archie told me. He's worried. All their friends are. Did you even bother to try and track Jughead down, FP?"

-

Jughead's things had more or less spread across the trailer, but the backpack was still sitting by the closet. When FP reached into it, dug down to the bottom, his hands closed on worn, familiar leather.

That double-headed snake was frayed now. Threads stabbing out. Nobody had cared for this thing in years. Gladys wouldn't have -- she'd hated the Serpent mark when FP had been just a low-level stooge, and had hated the leader's jacket even more, once FP had been promoted. FP found himself suddenly hating it too. His hands were shaking. He couldn't get them to stop.

"FP?" Jughead said, behind him. He sounded sleepy. Must have padded out from the bedroom. FP hadn't even heard.

Then, accusing, "What are you doing looking through my stuff?"

FP looked up at him. In the trailer's low light, Jughead's face was half in shadow, but it still looked so right. So familiar.

"Forsythe?" FP said, voice cracking.


	4. Chapter 4

"I did write you," FP insisted. "I did. Your damn mother -- she must have trashed the letters. You believe me, don't you?"

Jughead backed away. FP forced himself to not follow, to stay still and give the boy some space.

His boy. _His_ boy. FP had stopped writing to him after a year, but what else could he have done? No one had written back. 

Forsythe -- Jughead -- must have been seven by then. Too young. It occurred to FP that his birthday had just passed. FP had marked it by drinking late at the Wyrm, and Jughead hadn't said anything. Maybe he would have put two and two together if the boy had just _said_ something. 

But Jughead hadn't known enough to say. That much was clear. He rubbed at those hollowed, pretty eyes like he was trying to scrub away his disgust. FP wanted to tell him to stop, that panic and dramatics weren't going to make this any better. 

"How could you not tell?" Jughead asked. His voice was creeping up high, like he was revolted. FP didn't like that: Jughead revolted by him. "If I'm really your son, how come you didn't recognize--"

"Shit, did you recognize me?" FP snapped. 

Jughead flinched. The part of FP that cared for the damn kid, however wrong that care was, warred with the part of him that wanted to blame something. Jughead was looking at FP like FP was the monster here, like FP had done this. 

The worst thing was: he wasn't wrong.

"You think I'd have paid you seventy-five bucks for a blow and fuck if I'd known?" FP said, wanting to explain himself. "I know I'm a creep. But I'm not that much of a creep. And I never told you to sell your ass--"

Something in Jughead's face changed. Shuttered, somehow. One second he was the lanky, vulnerable kid FP had taken in and gotten to know. Then that boy's spine straightened, his shoulders tensed. He looked blankly confrontational.

"Right," he told FP, voice hard. "My fault. Sorry to sell you bad product, but I guess with a gangbanger for a dad, it must run in the family."

-

After that, it escalated.

After that, the kid was throwing on his clothes and grabbing his stuff, banging his way out of the trailer and into the night. 

FP was so furious by then that he stood and screamed after him -- _where the hell are you gonna go, huh, Jughead?_ \-- and it wasn't until some ten minutes had passed that the worry began to gnaw at him.

Worry and something else. Something enraged and mixed-up. He'd lost his boy, but it didn't feel like losing a son. Felt like losing the warmth that curled up next to him in bed, the lightness in his chest when he heard Jughead laugh. The easy pleasure of just holding the kid. Just thinking about it made him want Jughead desperately. Still. _Still_.

He didn't get much sleep. It was hard to sleep when he was sick at himself. Instead he got so drunk he blacked out. 

In the morning, for those first few seconds before he remembered, he was reaching for Jughead.

-

The thing that wormed its way into his brain, besides the boy's clever hands, his wide mouth, his long-lashed eyes -- was: 

Who else knew?

Fred. Maybe Pop. But, shit, there had to have been others. Most of the older Serpents, the ones who could have guided him back to his family, were gone by now. Jailed or dead or just plain AWOL. But not all of them. One or two were still around. FP caught the first at the Whyte Wyrm, drinking at the bar. Grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, pulled him in. Grinned. Then hit him so hard that that mealy-mouthed piece of shit flew back and rebounded off of the barstool.

"FP!" Rex shouted, from upstairs. "FP, what the hell? You don't show up for work, and now you--"

"Where's my family?" FP demanded. Around him, the thin crowd of midday drinkers looked uneasy. Mustang was whining and coming back at him. FP grabbed his forehead and shoved it, heard it hit the bar with a satisfying crack.

"How the fuck should I know?" Rex said. He was coming down the stairs now, pushing his sleeves up. FP figured he should back down before Rex hit him, but he didn't want to. Not until he knew.

"My wife," he said. "My baby girl. My _boy_. You must have known who they fucking were, Rex, it wasn't like I never talked about them. You must have known what happened to them--"

Mustang started laughing. It sounded strained, half-gurgle. The lower half of his face was all blood.

"Shit," he said, stretching the word out. "Figured it out, did you?"

"What the hell are the two of you talking about?" Rex demanded. "What--FP!"

FP wasn't really processing much. He had Mustang's head in his hands, and there was a perfectly good bar right there to smash it into. By the time Rex pulled him off, shouting about how FP was out of the damn gang, FP's hands and forearms were slick with blood, the violence coming back to him real easy even after these last few months of peace.

-

Winter hit the town, bitterly cold. Sleet nearly every afternoon. FP took some odd jobs beating the shit out of people now that he had a reputation for that. The rest of the time he drank. His boy was out there in the cold, but he knew Jughead was alright. Knew it because he marked his week by the moments he caught sight of the kid at Pop's, or by Riverdale High. 

FP wasn't following him. It was just that, in his cups, he had a habit of finding himself where his boy was. He'd tuck himself against a tree and watch Jughead watching others, scribbling notes for that novel of his. Would take note of how skinny he was getting, how sunken his cheeks were. It was only pride that kept FP from marching over to him. Pride, hollow and bitter.

After all he'd done to Jughead, how could he beg the boy to come back? 

But god, he wanted to. FP had never been a man to beg, but he might have if he'd thought Jughead would be safe with him. If he'd thought Jughead could come home and things could be normal, FP could give him that suburban fantasy he'd convinced himself his boy was living.

Some days he still felt like Forsythe was out there somewhere, all daydream, safe and looked-after. That had been something he'd told himself, he knew, so he could make it through ten years in prison. So he could weather a life without his family. 

But that Forsythe wasn't real. The real boy was as brittle and alone as FP was. The real boy was so desperate for family that he'd kept a beat-up leather jacket for ten years. The real boy had gone down on his knees and wrapped his lovely mouth around FP's cock, sweet as anything, and then tried to play off how much he liked having FP hold him afterwards.

It hurt to know he was out there with no one to look after him. Hurt so bad that one day, when Fred Andrews showed up, FP just let him in without much of a fight, even though he was dead-drunk at noon and probably would have fought anybody else. But not Fred. He'd figured out that Fred's boy -- he was Jughead's friend. Maybe Fred could tell him how his boy was doing. 

FP waved him in the direction of the recliner. The rest of the place was trashed, but the recliner was pretty clean.

Fred didn't sit.

"So this is what you've become," he said, short about it.

FP bit back a curse.

"Door's right there, if you're feeling high and mighty," he said instead. "You came through it. You can go right back out."

Fred didn't leave. Instead something around his eyes tightened, almost like he was sad.

"Jughead told me why he won't come home with you, FP," he said, and for a second FP's throat closed up, panicky. 

Jughead had _told_?

But then Fred was continuing.

"You're working for the Serpents again," he said. "You know, I would have thought a ten year stint would teach you to leave that alone."

FP ignored the burn of rage over how condescending that was. His throat opened up enough for him to croak, "How is he? Jughead."

"Archie found him living in a closet at school," Fred said simply. "And that was better than we'd thought. This summer, seemed like there wasn't even a foster family in the picture anymore, and I started fearing for a bit there that he'd ended up in a bad place."

"You were worried about him?" FP put in. 

Behind all the bitterness and anger, there was some relief coming through. Someone else had cared a little bit about his boy. Someone had looked at all the wreckage FP always left in his wake and picked out Jughead, shining in it. Deserving more. 

"He's a good kid," Fred said, confirming it. Then, after a pause, "We've asked him to come live with us. Me and Archie. He said yes. He'll have a place with us as long as he wants it."

"Right," FP said. That seemed to close things, then. His boy out of the cold. FP here, alone, rooting around the couch for a bottle he was sure he'd dropped somewhere. "Well, you took my share of the company. Can't be too hard to take my boy--"

"I didn't come here to gloat, FP," Fred said simply. "I came to offer you a job. Jughead asked me to. Your boy _wants_ to come home to you."

-

That was such a small thing, but FP clung to it. 

The first few weeks, he was late a few times and hung over, to boot. But Fred didn't say anything, just handed him the hard hat and let him get to work. Fred had no permanent crew, looked like, just a lot of guys who came and went, sticking around only when the work looked likely to pay them more than the big companies did. Fred was good at a lot of things, but he'd never been able to build a real crew. Not like FP. FP was a natural foreman -- wasn't too different from being a gang leader, after all -- and so he didn't feel too bad for Fred on days he clocked in late.

No, what made him feel bad was still Jughead. Jug knowing his own old man had bent him over every solid inch of that trailer and fucked him, and still pushing Fred Andrews to give FP work. To give FP a reason not to go back to the Serpents.

When he'd been small, so very small it used to make FP choke up to remember him, Forsythe had been the one to try and salvage everything FP wrecked. Picking up the literal messes FP had made when he was drunk and angry, careful little hands putting everything back the right way. Crawling over to his sister and lifting her up, rocking her when Gladys and FP's shouts had woken her. 

How hadn't FP _known_? Ten years later, and when his boy found him broken and useless, his boy had put him back together again. That was why FP couldn't help but think of him as something good, even when the good left him dizzy with want. He spent his days at the job site, sure, but nights he spent feverishly stroking one off, hating himself because he was thinking of his boy. It had to stop. It would stop, if Jughead came home. FP wasn't some animal. He wasn't ever going to touch the kid again, wasn't ever going to force him like that. 

But in some ways he was glad that Jughead was bunking with Fred and Fred's boy. Glad Jughead was getting three meals regular and a roof over his head and didn't have to fuck anybody for that.

Which didn't mean his mouth didn't go dry, his head didn't spin, the day he finally saw Jughead again.

He was waiting in the construction trailer, talking something over with Fred's boy. They both looked up when FP came in and, as far as FP was concerned, the whole damn world dimmed. Jughead looked a little fuller than he had before, a little better rested. Still so fine-boned. All the angles FP used to have, but tempered by that prettiness he'd gotten from his mother. 

FP beat back the urge to grab the kid's skinny wrist and press a kiss to his knuckles. They weren't alone. And even if they had been, he couldn't do that kind of thing any more. 

He was glad his voice was steady when he spoke.

"All the boys together," he managed, pulling off his hard hat, focusing on tossing it into the bin. Fred was coming in behind him now. "Hey, we should catch dinner, huh? My treat. What do you say, Fred?"

Fred looked uncertain, but not unwinnable. But before he could answer, Jughead spoke up.

"Actually, I thought you and me could go out to dinner," he said. 

A beat.

"Dad."

Thank god the light in the trailer was dim. FP's dick definitely gave a twitch, and FP hated himself. Hated himself, but fuck if he didn't want to hear the word again.

"Not sure that's such a good idea--" he started.

"I think it's a great idea," said Fred's boy, brimming with wholesome support. 

Fred clapped FP on the shoulder. 

"Stop punishing yourself," he advised FP. "You've worked hard. Take your boy out for dinner."

"Yeah," Jughead said. His voice was too bright. "Take me, dad."

-

This time, FP couldn't enjoy the look of approval Pop shot his way. Couldn't even spare a glance for Pop, to tell the truth. Jughead was slouched on the other side of the booth, tracing little patterns on the chrome table with a finger. All of FP's attention narrowed to him, to trying to figure out what was happening behind that blank expression.

The kid had Fred convinced he wanted to come home with FP. But that was Fred. Fred looked on the bright side; he probably didn't even know what a dark side was. So for all FP knew, Jug was feeding him a pat little story, and maybe in return trying to figure out what had made his old man such a scumbag that he could come back after ten years, pick Jughead out, and pay to fuck his ass.

And it wasn't like there weren't stories Fred could tell him.

"Whatever he's said--" FP said now, "About me stealing. You've gotta understand. I was trying to support you, your mother, the baby--"

"Did stealing land you in jail?" Jughead asked. His voice was cool. His eyes, flicking up to meet FP's for just a second, were still blank. "Mom always said you killed a guy."

FP cursed. It was only worry for the baby that kept him from wanting Gladys dead. She'd said that? She'd said that and then ditched their boy. 

"I was drunk," he said. "Got this stupid idea to go in and rob the department store with my boys. It was night, there was a watchman. I swear to god I wasn't the one that shot him, but I was the one that got caught. Trouble was, they caught me dumping the body. I wasn't going to name names, so they pinned all the time they could on me."

And he'd done it. He'd done all ten years, never complained. Didn't that get him something? Didn't that mean he was entitled to let it go, to move on?

But that didn't mean Jughead wanted to move on with him, no matter how well they fit. And they did fit well. Dirty, wrong, but perfect. As perfect as things probably got with a guy like FP.

He closed his eyes and brought a hand up to his face. Trying to think through what to say. What he could offer the boy. The waitress came and left them their usual: cheeseburgers, shakes, extra fries. FP used the pause to try and pick his words right.

"I'm out of the Serpents," he said, skirting around the how. Fuck Mustang, anyway. Finally OD-ed, FP had heard, and good riddance. 

"I was out before Fred even came by with the job offer," he continued. "I can cut back on the drinking. Just give me a little time with that. And I can set the room up for you. Just for you. Give you an allowance, too, not for doing anything. Just because -- because you're my boy. A man oughtta take care of his son. And I won't--"

He stopped. There was some a hitch in his voice that probably betrayed how hard he was. Half-hard, and wanting more. Ever since Jughead had called him 'dad' back in the trailer. But he had to push past that. This was the most important thing. If he couldn't guarantee the boy this, then he didn't deserve to have him.

"I won't touch you," he promised. "Not once, you hear? I never should have, and I won't from here on out. You won't have to do anything you don't want--"

Jughead was dipping a fry in one of the little paper ketchup containers, swirling it around and around, hyper-focused on it. 

"One time, I almost got arrested by a deputy," he said, almost too casually. "I didn't want to blow him, but I did. Another time, one of the Serpents showed up with a friend. I didn't want to do that, either."

FP's hands moved of their own accord, mauling his burger. For a moment, it didn't matter what he'd done to Jughead himself. This -- this made his vision blur with rage. 

"Nobody's doing that to you again," he spat. "Alright? I won't let them. And I won't let myself--"

"Dad," Jughead said, shutting him up and going to straight to his dick all over again. When Jughead spoke again, he was very quiet. This was a South Side boy, so he knew when he had to keep away from attention. Still, FP couldn't understand why everyone wasn't looking at him. Jughead's eyes were wet, but that made them look even greener, made his whole face look that much more delicate and fine.

"I wanted you," Jughead said. "I wanted you even when we were doing things I wouldn't have wanted with anybody else. I couldn't understand why I wanted you so badly."

He laughed a little, but not like anything was funny.

"Guess I've always been weird. On the outside of things. This was no different, right? When you're already a damaged homeless hooker--"

"Stop that," FP said. The self-loathing in his boy's voice -- it was too much. Of all the things he could share with Jughead, this was the worst.

Jughead stopped, went shuttered and blank again. He looked to both sides, scoping out the room. Then he slouched even lower in his seat, stretching his arm below the table, and before FP could figure out what he was doing he felt the slight press of Jughead's fingers on his fly. 

So slight. But when coupled with Jughead whispering, "Dad," those fingers had him so hard he was gasping.

Jughead's smile was heartbreaking.

"You too, huh?" he said, making a joke of it even though his eyes were still wet. "That's something. I'm glad I'm not the only one."


	5. Chapter 5

With everything so tangled up, and with FP still leaning on the booze most days, maybe it wasn't time to bring Jughead home permanently. Maybe it wouldn't ever be time. 

So Jughead stayed with the Andrews, mostly. When he did come by the trailer, FP kept it above board. He watched movies with the kid, sitting on separate ends of the couch now. He set the table so he and Jughead were opposite each other, a big bowl of fruit between them. Neither of them ate much fruit, but, well. It gave FP something to look at that wasn't Jughead. He couldn't seem to keep his thoughts clean when he was looking at Jughead.

He'd have tried to check himself into a program or something, if he'd had the money. He didn't. And anyway, maybe this was better. He'd left his son once and once was enough. He wanted to be there for Jughead now, wanted Jughead to know FP's door was always open to hear about the novel or the Blue and Gold or whatever else Jughead wanted to talk about. Even if Jughead (pretty wisely) never invited himself to stay the night. 

"You shaved," Jughead pointed out once, over a weekend lunch FP had managed to cobble together for the both of them. Just some microwaveable vegetable lasagna, nothing fancy, but it gave the kid a new food group to try, at least. 

"I'm gonna meet a woman later," FP admitted. "Actually, we met at the gas station. Asked her if she'd like to grab a coffee."

Jughead stiffened. FP might have known he would, but Christ. This couldn't continue. Not if he wanted Jughead to come home, to spend the night for once. Not if he wanted to guarantee that those nights could stay innocent. And not with the way it made them both feel about themselves. FP was fine wallowing, but he didn't want his boy hating himself. Especially since the moment Jughead left the trailer, his old man would be locking the door and jerking off, thinking of the little smiles Jughead sent his way, the happiness in Jughead's voice when FP asked him to read his novel aloud.

"We both know I've gotta move on," FP told him now. FP was ever the hypocrite. "You do too. Hey -- what's happening with that Betty? How about her, huh?"

Jughead rolled his eyes.

"Still too good for a former prostitute," he muttered. 

Something in FP's chest twinged.

"You did what you had to survive. No shame in that, Jughead."

He meant it. He hoped Jughead understood that he meant it. But Jughead just spared him one of those lightning-fast glances, the kind that made FP's knees weak. 

"I guess," he said after a few seconds, pushing his lasagna around on his plate.

-

Winter turned into a wet, too-chilly spring. FP did start to date, but couldn't get the hang of making anyone stick. Wasn't like he had much to offer: he was a felon who worked construction. And anyway, even when they wanted to stick around, he always ended things when it turned out he couldn't keep from thinking of entirely the wrong person in bed.

He wanted Jughead home so bad that some nights the want woke him up. Sort of an ache in his chest, and then further down his dick tenting, asking for the kid's special attention. He'd try to go back to sleep and would get visions of Jughead bent over, holding onto the kitchen counter, crying out as FP fucked into him. FP tried hard, really hard, to forget what they'd done. But it turned out that sweet memories were as hard to forget as bad ones. 

But Jughead was trying too, he knew. Despite it all Jug was a good kid, one who wanted a nice normal life as badly as FP wanted it for him. So FP held back his bitterness when he found out Jug was finally taking that Betty to the spring formal. Just made sure the kid got a few of the hundreds FP had been saving up for him. To buy himself a decent suit, or get Betty a nice corsage.

"I'll take a picture of them for you," Fred told him on the day of the dance, after FP declined to come over and see Jughead off.

FP grinned uneasily. He couldn't figure out how to say no, so he didn't, but he figured he'd have to burn the picture. A photo of his boy looking polished, looking well cared for and _happy_ \--

FP wanted to put it on his night table and his coffee table and plaster it on every single wall of the trailer. Wanted to be able to keep it in his wallet, too, and take it out to show that old lady at the corner store. His boy, right there. Tall. Smart. Good-looking. Loved, dammit.

But shit, there was a reason he hadn't asked for a photo. Dirty as he was, there was a good chance something like that would have him fantasizing about Jughead even worse than normal.

"Just remind him to be a gentleman," he told Fred, and left. 

He went home and tried to forget about it. Pulled out a six-pack and sat there flipping channels for hours. When something reminded him of Jughead -- the classic movie channel, or a damn commercial about a man dropping his son off at college -- he made sure he thought of the Jughead that was Forsythe. The Jughead that wrote for the school newspaper, that rode his bike to and from school. The kid Jughead deserved to be, the one who was finally asking this Betty out.

He bet his boy would be aglow over it. He'd be shooting that girl those little smiles of his, with his lashes all downcast. Cocking his head in her direction, pretty as anything.

Whatever the channel was, it became a blur. FP set his beer on the TV table by the recliner and unzipped his fly. His dick was heavy and familiar in his hand. He pumped it slow. He was alone, he knew he was alone. But in his mind's eye Jughead was kneeling in front of him again. A Jughead FP had already kissed senseless: lips all swollen, eyes hooded. A Jughead with his tongue out, obscene, letting FP rub the head of his dick on it. FP had kept that up for a good ten minutes one time, until Jughead was drooling on it just the way FP liked. Drooling and whimpering and fucking back on his own fingers. No shame in his eyes then. Just trust, trust that FP would make it good for him. 

FP bit back a groan. He paused the fantasy long enough to get his jeans off, his underwear down. His other hand found his own ass. His fingers were more coarse than his boy's, his touch less deft. But he could pretend it was Jughead anyway. Jughead in those last few weeks, daring like he'd been, eager to put his fingers and tongue to work on FP's hole. 

Once, when FP had been crooning at him about how good he was, how he was better than FP deserved, the boy had pulled back. Said, seriously, _you make it so good for me, FP._

Then a lick.

_Daddy._

Then another lick.

 _Daddy_.

Again and again, until FP was growling at him and turning, grabbing Jughead by the arm as Jughead laughed. Pinning the kid on the couch and palming his ass, and beneath him Jughead was hard and delighted. 

_Seriously! You'd be a good dad, I bet. You've taken care of_ me _so far._

FP had been so thrown off by that that he'd let go, for a second. Jughead had used that second to turn around and looked at him. His expression had been grateful. Relieved. Like he was just a lonely kid who'd landed in FP's arms and was happy about it. Like he was home at last.

Then and now, that put FP over the edge. Then, he'd had Jughead there to laugh again and jerk him until he was done coming, clean the spunk up with his mouth. Now he just came, panting, furious at himself. 

Maybe he'd always wanted this. Maybe some part of him had always known, and had wanted to be the boy's father -- hell, he was pretty glad he _was_ Jughead's old man, most days. Jughead was a phenomenal kid. And as long as he was linked to FP like this, he couldn't just leave FP behind.

FP leaned back, sticky and sated. Ignored the buzz of the TV. Drifted off a bit.

The door slammed open. 

He was up with a yell, pulling his briefs back on, ready for a fight. But it was just Jughead. Jughead in a skinny navy suit, color on his cheeks. His eyes went wide as saucers when he caught FP standing there in his underwear. FP hoped like hell that the boy couldn't smell his release on him.

"Shouldn't be here," he told Jughead, to cover up his embarrassment. "You should be at the dance."

Jughead leaned against the wall, looking unbothered. "It's like two in the morning. The dance is over."

"Well, what'd you do with Betty?" FP demanded. 

Jughead looked at him like he was stupid.

"I took her back to her house," he said slowly. "But since I didn't know if Archie snuck up to our room with his date, I didn't want to go back there after and risk walking in on him."

That made sense. FP nodded at him. Made a vague gesture at the kitchen, at the darkened living room. Not sure what he meant to say by it, except that what was his was also Jughead's. Jughead watched him for a second, then pushed off the wall and went to raid the fridge. FP took the opportunity to wipe at the mess on the recliner with his jeans. When Jughead resurfaced with a sandwich in one hand, FP pushed him to the couch.

Jughead stared at him, bemused.

"Had one or two tonight," FP admitted. "No more. I'm keeping the drinking down, you know."

Actually, he'd made his way through the entire six pack, it was just that the empty cans had been kicked under the recliner. But Jughead didn't need to know that. FP sat down next to him, careful to put some distance between them.

"You have fun?" he said. "With Betty?"

Jughead took a bite of his sandwich rather than answer. Chewed. Swallowed. FP watched his Adam's apple bob. 

"I told her," Jughead said, after a bit. "Not about us. But about what I was doing. What I had to do, I mean. Most of the time I didn't want to do it."

His voice was careful and blank again. FP felt like somebody had dunked his heart in a bucket of misery. 

"If she has a problem with you now," he told Jughead hoarsely, "if she's judging you over this, then she's no damn prize. You don't let her make you feel ashamed about this, you hear?"

Jughead flushed. 

"She's fine with it, dad," he said. "Well. Not fine. She was sad for me. But she wants me to come upstate with her this weekend to visit her sister -- you know, the one that I told you got pregnant and has two kids now? Betty doesn't let anybody even talk about Polly, with the things people say, but she says she wants me to meet her."

He polished off the sandwich, all except for a crust, which he held between two fingers and focused on, like he couldn't quite meet FP's eyes. 

"I think I could have something good with her," he said, voice high. "Normal."

Oh. 

_Oh_. 

At least the pain was tempered with pride. His boy was moving past what FP couldn't. That was good. Bittersweet, but good. FP opened his mouth to congratulate him. Jughead cut him off. 

"I'm not normal, though, dad," he said. "I'm not. I like her -- I told her I would go, and that I want this, and I do, but--"

Suddenly his boy was twisting close, tossing aside the crust. Grabbing FP's undershirt and pulling him in, kissing him. FP's brain short-circuited. He shouldn't kiss back, but he couldn't help it. Jughead said into his mouth, rapid-fire, like he was trying to get it over with: "I know I'm damaged. Okay? I know I'm messed up. But I _liked_ it when you made it so I didn't hate myself for that."

And then he was diving in for more kissing. Hungry. Hungry as FP was. One of his fine hands was stroking FP's jaw. That touch brought FP back from the dead, and that was before Jughead's other hand found its way into his briefs. FP tried to break off, to warn the kid that he'd be soft. He'd come not too long ago, not that he wanted to tell Jughead why or how. But his son just seemed to take the softness as a challenge. He pulled down the band of FP's briefs, breathing hard, licking his lips.

They should stop. 

FP _knew_ they should stop, knew he should tell Jughead to quit it. 

"Let me get that pretty mouth red and swollen," was what he said instead. "Before you do anything."

So then they were kissing again. Wet and eager. Like a pair of kids, though only one of them was that. Jughead was making these contented little sounds that drove a part of FP wild. He helped the boy strip off his jacket, his tie, his pants and shirt. Wrapped his arms around him. Jughead shuddered a little. He smiled -- really smiled -- into FP's mouth.

"You miss me holding you?" FP asked him softly.

Jughead nodded. FP could see the boy's dick tenting in his boxers. He rubbed it once through the thin fabric and Jughead buried his face in FP's shoulder, gasping a little.

"Can I--?"

Fuck. Like the boy had to ask. FP sat back and let Jughead get on his hands and knees, sinking a little into the ratty cushions. He took one hand and closed it on FP's cock. Then he brought his head down and mouthed the soft tip. FP had always been wide enough that even this was a mouthful for Jughead, but he didn't seem to mind the girth. He shifted his weight to his elbows, still suckling. FP admired the concentration on his face, the shower of beauty marks on his throat. He passed a hand over them, rubbing Jug there, and Jughead curled into the touch. Jughead had gotten so good at this by now that FP was firming up, easy.

"Missed this," FP confessed to him. 

Jughead's eyes flicked back up to him. He looked like FP wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. He looked satisfied. He pulled off the head of FP's dick and said, almost like an aside, "Me too." 

He was panting a little. He looked ready to dive back in, but FP put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back. Not to stop this. FP was too far gone, too filthy to stop. He _couldn't_ stop, not any more than he could stop all the dirty fantasies he had about the kid. But he could make it good for Jughead.

"Let's get you in bed," FP told him. "Wanna do this right."

He barely processed how they got to the bedroom, but they got there. Jughead eased himself onto the bed like he still thought about it as half-his. He sat there looking up at his father as FP rooted fruitlessly for a condom. For the first time, FP regretted trying to cure himself of Jughead by fucking other people. He came up pretty much empty.

"I went to the clinic last week," Jughead said now, looking away a little. "You know, in case Betty wanted to do anything. I came up clean. So if _you're_ clean..."

He let that dangle, gently, like it didn't weigh anything. Like it wasn't dropping an anvil of want right on FP's chest. He'd never had his boy raw. It had never seemed right to demand that. But, shit, he'd recently gotten a clean bill of health too. 

"If that's what you want," FP said, "then you'd better turn over."

Jughead obeyed. FP spared a second to admire him from this angle: his long, skinny legs, his ass in the air. Jughead's cock was already leaking. FP climbed up behind him, noting how Jughead shuddered a little with anticipation when he perceived his father's weight on the bed. He set about returning the favor the boy had done him. Tugging slow and torturously at Jughead's dick. Scissoring into that pucker of his, but gently. Real gently. He always liked opening Jughead up. It was the noises the boy made. Every time like the first time, every time like he'd forgotten it could be good from the start.

When FP figured the kid was loose enough, he put a hand on Jughead's shaking ass and coaxed the boy into turning over again. 

He pushed Jughead's thighs as far back as they would go. Settled in between his legs. Jughead locked eyes with him, not looking away, unafraid. That fired up something warm inside FP. Usually he held off, tormenting the kid with kindness. Not tonight. Tonight he pushed in to the hilt. Jughead moaned at the intrusion, eyes tearing up a little. His dick was rock-hard, though, and he was hot and perfect around FP. By the third stroke FP was catching the nub inside him, making him sob.

Once he got that rhythm down, FP leaned in and kissed him again. And again. And again, in time with his thrusts. He hooked one arm around Jughead's thigh and used the other to prop up the boy's head. Jughead pulled FP's own head in, hands clasped around his jaw. 

"That's good, boy," FP managed. It took all his effort not to come yet, holding out for Jughead to come first. "You're doing good. Doing good, son."

Jughead whined into his mouth, and then he was coming all over their stomachs. His head lolled back a little, and FP caught sight of that wide, bruised mouth. Jughead was smiling. Triumphant. That undid FP. He came too, inside the boy, barely holding himself together. 

-

After he'd changed the sheets so Jughead wouldn't have to sleep in the mess, he pulled his son into his arms for the night.

"You'll stay, right?" FP asked him. "You'll stay?"

Jughead snorted.

"Obviously."

"We only have to do it when you want to," FP reminded him.

Another snort.

"Obviously."

Jughead was a phenomenal kid, but a little bit snotty, too. When he was half-asleep, drowsy and boneless, FP flicked his beanie back a little to punish him. Jughead came-to briefly, long enough to say, "Just take it off, dad."

Pleased, FP did. He ran his fingers through his kid's hair until Jughead's breath evened out. Well and truly asleep. So FP could sleep, too.

In the morning, Jughead got up before he did and had the idea to clean the trailer up, so he found the beer cans under the recliner and they had their second fight. That one, like the first, was FP's fault. He made sure Fred passed more money along to the kid, for him to take upstate when he went with Betty to visit her sister. This time he did see the boy off, hugging him in front of the Andrews. In front of the Andrews, hugging was all he could do.

That and rub a thumb along the boy's forehead, noting the way Jughead took in a sharp, needy breath.

FP pulled him close again, spoke into his ear.

"None of that stuff you found--" he said. "None of that'll be there when you get back. You hear? I'm off it. I promise."

And it was a rough, miserable weekend, but he kept his promise. Jughead rewarded him by staying another night afterwards, and in the morning coming up behind FP in the bathroom. Getting him to sit down on the toilet. Climbing onto his dick and riding him there, in the cramped space. He wasn't an expert at that by any means, but FP still enjoyed it plenty. He liked the look of concentration Jughead had, when the boy took charge like that.

FP managed to form a box of pancake mix into something nearly edible afterwards, too, so Jughead even got some breakfast that morning. 

"Should bring that Betty by sometime," FP suggested to him. If his boy liked the girl, then he figured he ought to get to know her.

Though, after a minute, he had to add, "Not for anything untoward, I mean. I expect us both to be gentlemen."

Jughead chewed his blackened pancake. For a second, he looked worried.

"Do you want me to break up with her?" he suggested. He didn't sound too happy about the suggestion.

"'Course not," FP said. "You should have a girlfriend, Jug."

He meant that. Speaking as Jughead's father, as someone who wanted a good life for the boy, he meant that. Jughead should have the girl, the normal life -- shit. _College_ , someday. FP wasn't going to let Jughead duck out of any of that. He wouldn't be much of a father if he did.

It was just that sometimes he was more than a father, too. He rubbed at a trickle of maple syrup at the corner of the boy's mouth now. Jughead's head dipped, and then he was sucking on FP's fingers, looking up at him through his long lashes.

"Don't worry about me," FP told him. "You go out, you get your girl. But when you wanna come back? I'll be here. Give you whatever you want, then."

-

Jughead slept at the Andrews house less and less and then not at all. Then he slept only at home. But he did spend plenty of time out. At the Blue and Gold. With that Betty, or with Archie Andrews.

But when he came home at night, and reached for his father, and said _dad_ in that way he knew always fired FP up --

FP always gave his boy what he needed.


End file.
